Hints of flesh in the forgeryof flesh, a habitat of deconstructedtrucks, rusted in a mud-slakedparking lot: all that is notsubmitted to light, now that a littlebit indoctrinates its stillnesson the skin of dead leaves. You werenot a mistake. Shrug offyour long affliction. Underneaththe world, in the shallowbruising of pure realia,unlearn the accuracy of tears.

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